And then I would soothe and compassionate with her, and tell her how much I loved her, and how pleasant her society was to me; that even there and then I found motives for consolation and encouragement, that we must exercise faith and patience and an abiding trust in God. Oh, the blessedness of such heavenly trust— how it comforts and sustains the soul in moments of doubt and despondency—how it alleviates misery and even subdues pain.
Towards night we approached a farm-house in the outskirts of the village. It was a happy-looking rural, contented spot, wanting, indeed, in the appearances of wealth and luxury, but evidently the abode of competence and peace. I felt that the possessors of such a humble comfortable place must be hospitable people, that they would have a care for two weak weary wandering women, and so exhorting my mistress to be of good cheer and strong in hope, we entered the gate, and advanced by a neatly graveled walk towards the dwelling. Every thing seemed imbued with a quiet air of domestic happiness. Even the little dog came running wagging to meet us wagging his tail and frisking as if we were old acquaintances. A benevolent-looking middle-aged old Lady came out into the porch as we approached, and politely inquired our wishes. We told her briefly as possible that we were two poor women, who in seeking to find the village of Milton had become bewildered and wandered from the way; that we were weary and hungry, and though we had no claim on her hospitality save that of distress, we should be greatly obliged if she would grant us shelter for the night.
“Come in, and I will ask father” she said, and we entered the house.
An old man, with grey hairs and of the most venerable appearance was sitting near the open window reading the Bible. He looked up, and bowed slightly.
“Father” said the woman, approaching him “here are two poor women, who have been lost in the woods, and who desire to stay with us all night. You have no objections?”
Again he He glanced inquisitively towards us, and seeming satisfied with our appearance replied “Not the least in the world.”
Her countenance was irradiated with a benevolent smile of joy, as she requested us to be seated and make ourselves at home. The old man continued reading.
“You will excuse father” said the good dame, addressing us. “He always spends the hour of sunset in reading the Bible. I call him father, though he is my husband it seems so natural like.”
We replied as well as we were able—that we should be sorry to disturb him.
There was a charm about this house and its appointments. It was very plainly, yet neatly furnished and through it breathed and moved an atmosphere of love. It was the sanctuary of sweet home influences, a holy and blessed spot, so light and warm and with such an abiding air of comfort that we felt so how pure and elevated must be the character of its inmates.
She was one of those old-fashioned women it does one’s heart good to behold. Her brown hair, just slightly silvered by time was smoothly parted, and put back beneath a plain cap of snowy whiteness. A neat handkerchief encircled her neck with its snowy folds, and being then crossing her bosom was fastened on one side with a silver pin. Her dress was perfectly in taste, being neither too light nor too dark, too gay nor too sombre, and her apron of black silk pleasantly rustled as she moved about genially like the breeze of summer and beneficently as the sunshine.
Slavery dwelt not there. A thing so utterly dark and gloomy could not have remained in such a place for a day.
Soon there was the hospitable jingle of preparation for supper in another apartment.
“I hope we are giving you no trouble” I ventured to suggest.
“Trouble, Oh no, it is our supper time, and you must partake with us.”
“You do us great honor” I responded. And when the table was spread we all sat down together.
It was not such a board as we were accustomed to see spread at my master’s house there was nothing that could minister to luxurious habits, or delight an epicurean fancy, but white bread and golden butter, some cherries fresh from the tree, and sweet milk formed the frugal repast. Before tasting it, however, the venerable man invoked the blessing of heaven upon it, and when we had finished he modestly returned thanks.
During supper our hostess became pleasantly talkative. She had a very soft voice, and her conversation was seasoned with cheerful gayety. It seemed to invite confidence, and she was evidently a little curious about the two wanderers thus strangely thrown on her hospitality. It was not strange that she should desire to know our names, and something connected with our former condition, before introducing us to her chambers, and giving us for the night the freedom of her house, yet the revelation might involve us all in danger and difficulty. It could not be made.
“Madam” I said revolving these things in my mind. [“]I trust you will not attribute to any improper motive our hesitancy to reveal what you wish to know. Of one thing you may rest assured whatever we are, or have been we have committed no crime. We have been unfortunate not guilty.”
A gleam of intelligence flitted over her face, but gave way in a moment to a look of the deepest compassion, and she said “I see how it is, tell me no more. I do not wish to know.”
There were voices in an adjoining room. The face of my mistress paled with fear.
“It is only my brother” said the hostess, probably noticing her look of alarm. “He is a lawyer, and has a room here, but being very retired in his habits we see little of him.”
A lawyer, and retired in his habits—could it be possible? but no, and why should we torment ourselves with unnecessary fears? Since sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
The good dame now led us into a room more retired and secluded than the former ones, but having the same air of orderly neatness, comfort, and perfect taste. It contained a bed very white and sweet, some chairs nicely cushioned, a small bureau, a very little stand, and a table. There was one window, only one, and that was low, little and half-curtained by whispering leaves. Stems of sweet lavender and rose-leaves were lying about, but the air seemed sultry, and going to the window I opened it, and looked out on the night.
It was a starlight night, but the air being soft, and balmy and hazy the stars seemed to look down upon you through a misty veil. They are shining here as they shine over the splendid mansion of my master. And what do they see there? Do they see the house in confusion, the servants alarmed, the master distracted. Have the large rooms been overturned, the galleries explored, the chambers searched? Has there been a hurrying to and fro, a racing and chasing around the country, notices posted up, and rewards offered. Perhaps. Or it may be that fearing the exposure and disgrace the master has hushed up all rumour and concealed the flight of his wife, vainly supposing that she will soon return; that he thinks of her moodily and wonderingly, sitting alone in the drawing room, while the shadows darken and thicken around him and the linden creaks.
Our hostess came in with a light. It was a lamp very little and pleasantly shaded, that diffused a soft illumination through the apartment, not enough to overpower the gloom, but sufficient to melt and soften it.
Regarding us compassionately she said pointing to the bed “You can rest there, and you need not fear disturbance. You have my best wishes” and she passed from the room, leaving gloom where the light of her presence had been.
My dear companion had taken a low seat, and remained silent and passive. We were alone, yet it seemed to me that the shadow of an evil presence was near us, that some evil eye was noting our doings, and that evil plans were concocting against us. Our benevolent hostess and her husband were above suspicion, but the old lawyer of retired habits, I was not so sure of him. The leafy curtaining of our window was slightly rustled, yet there was no breeze. I looked towards it; my companion trembled. Again there was a slight rustle, and I distinctly saw a human hand cautiously parting and pushing aside the leaves. The large white fingers were certainly those of a man. No less certainly was it a man’s face that appeared there in another moment, the keen black eyes taking in the room and us at a glance. A
keen black eye, and sharp angular features, though I obtained only a glimpse of them—but such an eye, only one person in the world possessed it, and that was Mr Trappe.
“Did you see him?” said my mistress, clasping her hands in agony. “Oh say, did you see him, or am I dreaming?”
“I saw something, or somebody” I replied
“It was his eyes, it was him. We are discovered” said she said with a suppressed cry of utter despair.
For a time I could say nothing to comfort her. I needed a comforter myself. He was then watching us, dogging our footsteps, and would be haunting us everywhere. By a natural instinct I turned towards the bed. Go to bed, to sleep, to rest without fear of being disturbed. How utterly impossible. Would there be rest or quiet anymore for us in this world? Were we ever again to sleep in peace? It seemed not. We must fly again. That very night we must set forth. We must leave the hospitable cottage and its inmates without thanks or ceremony. Under the broad heaven, with the free air, the free leaves, the free beauties of nature about us, we could breathe freer than there, but could we hope to escape?
My companion arose from the floor with tolerable composure. She was strong as persons have sometimes exhibited strength on the rack, as fever, delirium, or mortal agony makes strong. “What shall we do, what can we do?” she inquired hoarsely.
“Go to bed, and put out the light” I answered.
“Do you think that I could sleep, that I could shut my eyes after what I have seen?”
“I do not suppose that you would, neither should I, and yet our only chance of escape is in that project.
“There is no doubt that our enemy is this moment in the house. He has discovered us, our safety rests in his believing that we did not discover him. We will retire as if nothing had happened, and wait till in the late hours of night all becomes quiet, till even his restless brain is overpowered by slumber, and then we will go.”
I said this calmly, for a sort of desperation had given me calmness. She acquiesced in the scheme. Silently we laid aside our outer garments, extinguished the light and retired to bed. Need I describe how painfully awake we were, how we were sensitive to the smallest sound, or how long and wearily the hours dragged on. Once or twice we distinctly heard a door open and shut, and a man’s step in the passage, then all became perfectly still.
About midnight I arose and looked softly out. Not a star was in sight. The heaven was overcast with clouds and the wind moaned heavily. I thought of the Linden and its creaking limbs, thought of those who enjoyed their luxurious beds in pleasant dreams of home and friends, thought of ourselves, who without crime were hunted from place to place, and obliged to seek safety in darkness and obscurity.
Thinking that the time had come, and trusting in Heaven we arose, put on our clothes, carefully hoisted the window, pushed aside the leaves, and crept through the aperture. We reached the ground without harm, or making a noise. Quite as cautiously and silently we scaled the low board fence opposite, and were once more in the wide broad field. This advantage trifling as it was afforded us inexpressible relief. We fancied that we were leaving our enemy behind, and that every step increased the distance between us, and thus strengthened we hurried on. But whither? Our plans were all disconcerted now. He would intercept us at the village, he would be before us in the boat. Our only chance lay in concealment, and how were we to effect that? A deep, dark wood presented on our right hand, and thoughtless of superstitious dread, careless of fatigue, anxious only to escape our dreaded enemy into it we plunged. Over the logs, through the brushwood, tearing our garments, mangling our feet. On, on we went, how far we cared not only the farther the better. At length my beloved companion sank down by the side of a huge log, and declared that she must rest could not surmount it, that she must rest. Almost equally overcome I crouched beside her, and there in that position we remained till day. We then retired still farther into the woods, making our breakfast on some wild fruits, and quenching our thirst at a small rillet, that meandered among the shades. Gloomy, indeed, was our walk, but gloomier were our thoughts. Serpents, wild beasts, and owls were our companions, yet our horror was of man.
Towards noon the clouds blew off, and the sun came out. The young leaves whispered and talked, the birds sang, and the winds laughed among the trees. There was mirth and music around us; there was youth, and love, and joy for all things, but our troubled hearts.
Suddenly we were surprised and alarmed by emerging into a small clearing, in which stood an old cabin. A moment[’]s survey, however, convinced me that it was uninhabited. The paths leading to the entrance were choked with weeds, and all appeared forlorn and desolate. Cautiously we advanced, and entered as cautiously we entered. It had been the residence probably of some forester, and was formed much as Indians formed their wigwams. There was neither floor, door nor window, an old bench, of which one leg was broken, a broken iron pot, and some pieces of broken crockery were scattered about. In one corner was a heap of damp mouldy straw that had probably served as a bed, and in another was a bundle of old clothes. I feared to examine them; for I thought, but wherefore I know not that they might be connected with some deed of crime. As there were no traces of recent inhabitants we determined to abide there for a few weeks. True, a more lonely and desolate place could not well be imagined, but loneliness was what we sought; in that was our security. We could gather our sustenance from the forest, we could quench our thirst at a neighboring spring, and at least we should be free.
And there we remained for many days: how many I cannot tell. But the fruits and berries that were hard and green on our arrival when we arrived there became juicy and mellow and finally departed before we left. The flowers that were just budding, opened, ripened, and dropped their seeds, and the birds that were busily employed all day long, singing and building their nests, hatched and matured their offspring.
I had long thought that the cabin had been the theatre of fearful crime, and subsequent discoveries tended to confirm this opinion. There was a dark deep stain on the ground that I could not divest from the idea of blood, and when we removed the straw in the corner the spears were matted and felted together as if blood had been spilt over and then dried upon them. Removing the bundle of clothes we found a hatchet, with hair yet sticking to the heft, and while searching for berries discovered the remains of a human skeleton which the dogs and vultures had disentombed.
In consideration of these discoveries a superstitious horror took possession of my dear companion[’]s mind. The scream of a night-bird, or the howl of a wolf, even the voice of the wind filled her mind with terror. The sounds of the night she interpreted into utterances from the unseen world, and the shadows flitting across her path she regarded as things of eternity made visible. In vain Towards Autumn, so fe I besought her to banish these gloomy apprehensions. In vain I strove to support her with the reflection that whatever might have been done as we were innocent of crime no harm could come to us, but though her reason consented to all I said, her terrors were unconquerable.
Towards Autumn we began to think of changing our habitation, but where to go, or how to go was a serious question. Our garments were torn, our shoes worn out, and we could not hope to escape observation in so miserable a plight. But to remain there through the winter was impossible. The frost would destroy our supplies of food, and then we had neither fire nor the means of obtaining any. All these things we carefully revolved, and in our extremity sometimes half resolved to throw ourselves on the mercy of our enemy, and know the worst.
The difficulties of my situation were increasing daily. The mind of my companion became seriously effected. Want, fatigue, exposure, and the long long agonies of mental torture, had deeply wrought on her physical constitution, and impaired her intellect. She became querelous and complaining, upbraided me as the cause of all her difficulties, and heaped the strangest accusations of conspiracy on my head. This seemed the bitterest cup of all and I was ready to cry in the language of the Saviour “Father, if it be possible let th
is pass from me” but through his infinite goodness I felt to add likewise “Not my will but thine be done.”
After a time my mistress became decidedly insane, and her insanity partook the most painful character. She fancied herself pursued by an invisible being, who sought to devour her flesh and crush her bones. She would scream with affright, and cowering to the ground crouching to the earth point with her finger to the ob dreadful creation of her distempered fancy. “There; there it is, it is coming, keep him off, keep him off won[’]t you? Oh horrible. He tears my flesh, he drinks my blood. Oh; oh” then falling to the ground in a paroxysm of the wildest fear. She would remain insensible for a long time. At intervals, however, the light of her mind, struggling struggled through its enveloping clouds, and she would converse rationally as in former times.
One morning I was surprised by the barking of a dog, and the shouts of men. The sounds were evidently near and probably proceeded from a party of hunter’s [sic]. In a few moments more three men emerged from the wood, and advanced directly towards our cabin. Flight, had we been so disposed was out of the question, and so cowering in a corner we determined to abide our fate, or rather I did; for my companion seemed incapable of any connected thought. I heard them talking as they approached.
“Well, it is strange anyhow, but this Cabin must certainly have been inhabited recently. The paths are well worn, and, by Jove, here’s the print of a footstep too” said one, in a loud coarse voice.
“Where? I can’t see any” said another.
“There in the dew on the grass. Don’t you see it now?”
“Yes, and a woman’s too.”
[“]Some runaway Negro, perhaps, hope we can catch him” and he called his dog.
“No Negro never made such a track as that.”
“I dare say by looking round we shall find out who made it. They can’t be far off” said the third.
“Well we’ll look here first” and suiting his actions to the word he advanced to the door and looked in, but hastily drew back on seeing us.
The Bondwoman's Narrative Page 13
